


Bacon

by coffeebuddha



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reid decides to bring Morgan breakfast in bed. Clooney decides to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [just_chiara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_chiara/gifts).



The egg falls onto the kitchen floor with a wet splat and Clooney's on it, sucking it up like a furry Hoover before Spencer's hand is even halfway to the roll of paper towels. He flounders for a moment, even nudges Clooney with his toe a little bit, while he sorts through his encyclopedic brain trying to remember if the raw egg will hurt the dog. He doesn't think it will, and anyway it's too late to do anything now. The egg's gone, although that doesn't stop Clooney from lazily licking at the floor, his eyes fixed defiantly on Spencer as if he's asking, "What are you going to do about it, huh? Next time you should drop the bacon too."  
  
Spencer eyes Clooney warily as he sidesteps around him to grab a bag of bread from the breadbox. Clooney just looks levelly back at him and lays down in the middle of his path, his tail curled around his body like he plans on staying there for a while. Spencer glances at the back door and wonders if Clooney would let him put him outside, but then Clooney yawns--and maybe his incisors aren't all that sharp, but they're sharp enough--and every statistic Spencer's ever read about dog bites flashes through his brain. He tosses the dog a bit of crust instead. It's not like Clooney's really _doing_ anything, right?   
  
He bends over the counter and meticulously dips slices of bread into his egg mixture, paying special attention so that they don't end up too dry or too soggy. He's so completely absorbed in what he's doing that doesn't hear the soft pad of bare feet on the floor behind him. It isn't until Derek presses up against his back to look over his shoulder that Spencer notices he's there at all.   
  
"What are you doing," Derek asks groggily, his arms coming up to loosely circle Spencer's waist.  
  
The dripping bread flies out of his hand and lands near Clooney, who jumps to slurp it up, his tail wagging his approval at Spencer. Derek lets go of Spencer and rocks back on his heels when his lover whirls around, a whisk clutched in his hand dribbling goo on the floor. "I'm making you breakfast," Spencer exclaims. His eyebrows shoot up and he glances down when Clooney snuffles at his toes. He drops the whisk back into the bowl on the counter and tries to tuck his toes under the hem of his pajama bottoms so Clooney can't get at them. Derek looks torn between amusement and confusion, and Spencer crosses his arms over his chest and frowns at him accusingly. "Why are you up? You said you were sleeping in. You shouldn't be up yet."  
  
Derek blinks at Spencer, his eyes still fuzzy with sleep, and peers over his shoulder at the stove. "I thought I smelled bacon. You can't sleep through bacon. You're making bacon," he says, dropping a kiss on Spencer's cheek as he moves around him toward the stove, where a pan of bacon is indeed sizzling next to a pan of mostly melted butter.   
  
Spencer inhales deeply, finally noticing the way the warm, heavy scents intertwine, filling the room with everything that's homey and comfortable. His stomach grumbles, and Derek must hear it, because he grins over at Spencer. Something flutters low in Spencer's stomach and his contentment is so complete that it feels like it's radiating out from deep in the marrow of his bones, because it's Derek, who's basically bacon in human form. Spencer nods absently, a little lost in the wonder that still occasionally hits him when he looks at Derek, especially like this-with his face unshaven and wearing nothing but a pair of tattered sweatpants and his cheek creased from his pillowcase. He's imperfect and exposed and so completely _everything_ that it isn't until he reaches for a plate that Spencer snaps back to himself enough to position himself between Derek and the stove.   
  
"Go back to bed," he says, pointing down the hallway for emphasis. "It's your birthday, we have the day off, and you said you were sleeping in. Social conventions dictate that under these sort of circumstances, you should make your lover breakfast in bed, so that's what I'm doing. Now go back to bed."   
  
"Right," Derek says slowly as he glances between Spencer and the bacon. "Are you sure I can't just get a-"  
  
"No," Spencer says. He frowns sternly, trying to channel his inner Hotch and feeling at least a little successful. "I'll bring it to you as soon as it's done. Go get in bed."  
  
"Right," Derek says again. He hands the plate to Spencer and shakes his head as he goes.  
  
Crisis averted, Spencer pokes at the bacon to make sure it isn't burning, then starts dipping bread into his egg mixture again. He pauses and looks down when Clooney paws at his calf, whines pitifully for a moment, then lets out a single, sharp bark. "I should have made Derek take you with him," Spencer tells the dog.

* * *

  
"-and then he kicked me out of the kitchen," Derek says. He's sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed with the door open to let in the mouthwatering smell of Spencer's cooking. The laughter on the other end of the phone is loud enough that he pulls it away from his ear until it starts to die down. "It's not that funny, mama."  
  
"Your boyfriend just sent you to bed without breakfast. And you _went_ ," Fran laughs. "Do you have any idea what I would have given to have that kind of control over you when you were little?"  
  
"He doesn't have control over me," Derek says, leaning forward a little to peer through the open doorway when there's a loud crash from the kitchen. Spencer lets out a short exclamation of annoyance, but then it's mostly quiet again, so Derek stays where he is.   
  
"Of course not." The smirk in Fran's voice is so obvious that Derek can practically see it. "Take my advice, baby. Marry that boy, adopt a bunch of kids from Asia, and spend the rest of your life letting him boss you around, because I've never seen you as happy as you are wrapped around his finger."  
  
"I'm _not_ wrapped around his finger," Derek protests. "And don't think I didn't notice the adoption brochures you put in my birthday card."  
  
"You were meant to notice them. That's why I stuck them in there."  
  
Derek rolls his eyes. "Mama."  
  
"It would be such a comfort to me in my old age to know that my babies are happy and having babies, and to know that they understand all the sacrifices I've made for them and all the time and energy I've invested into their happiness," Fran says with an exaggerated sigh.  
  
"You're not old. And you're going to outlive us all."  
  
"And think of how lonely I'll be without grandchildren to keep me company."  
  
Derek laughs and falls back on the bed. The noises from the kitchen have almost completely stopped and when he pauses to listen, he can hear the quiet clanking of porcelain. "If you don't make me feel guilty about having to get off the phone, I promise I'll at least talk to Spencer about it, but you know how crazy our schedules are, so don't expect any miracles."  
  
"Don't tell your sisters, but you've always been my favorite." It's a line she's used so often with all of them that Derek doesn't even try to muffle his snort of disbelief. Fran continues, the hint of a laugh in her voice a little louder. "Give my love to Spencer and have a happy birthday, honey. I love you."  
  
"Love you too, mama. I'll talk to you on Sunday."   
  
Derek's just hanging up when Spencer appears in the doorway, balancing a tray of food. Clooney trots right behind him, so excited he's nearly stepping on his heels. Derek gapes at him as he crosses the bedroom and carefully puts the tray on the bed near his feet. Spencer eyes the tray suspiciously, his hands lingering on the handles for a moment before he inhales sharply and jerks away to slap a hand over the spot on his ankle where Clooney's nose had just been. The tray almost topples over and Derek's hand shoots out automatically to steady it, which is good since he's still too busy staring at Spencer to have caught it on anything other than reflex. There's no egg on Spencer's face, but that's only because it's all down the front of his shirt, wet and slimy and making the fabric cling to his thin frame. There are smudges of cinnamon on his right cheekbone and forehead, and for some reason his hair sparkles with a dusting of sugar. Spencer glares at Clooney like everything is his fault.   
  
"Happy birthday," Spencer says, barely glancing away from Clooney, who stares up at him with a huge doggy grin, his tongue lolling happily out the side of his mouth. "I'm taking a shower."   
  
With one more accusing look at Clooney, he stomps off to the bathroom, stripping his shirt off--and sprinkling the floor with sugar--as he goes. Clooney immediately puts his front paws up on the bed and slides his nose forward until it's nearly touching the tray, but Derek pushes him back down to the floor as he watches Spencer walking away. Spencer's pants hit the floor as he rounds the corner, and Derek glances down at his breakfast, then back at the bathroom, where he can hear the water turn on. It's not even really a contest, he decides as he climbs out of bed and puts the tray on top of the dresser where Clooney can't get to it.  
  
Spencer's already in the shower when Derek steps into the bathroom. He stands there for a few moments, admiring the outline of his long, lean body through the frosted glass doors, before stepping out of his pants and sliding the door open just wide enough to get inside. A patch of cold air slips in with him, and Spencer shivers when it hits his skin and turns around, his soapy arm sliding slickly across Derek's chest. The narrow shower's really too small for two people. Derek's been meaning to renovate the bathroom and put in a bigger one, maybe even something with one of those fancy, deep tubs that are big enough for more than one person.  
  
There are small, dark smudges on Spencer's thighs and hips that perfectly match the shape of Derek's fingertips, and he rests a hand there, aligning his fingers with the marks. He smiles, feeling more than a little self satisfied, and smoothes his palm across Spencer's collarbone, where a red bite mark stands out vividly against his pale skin. When he looks back up, Spencer rolls his eyes and shrugs Derek's hand off his shoulder.  
  
"Showering isn't a group activity, Derek," Spencer says, but there's no real annoyance in his voice and a hint of a smile plays around the corners of his mouth.  
  
"That depends on the group, Spencer." Derek grins and moves even closer. He can feel Spencer's sharp intake of breath when he leans flush against him, one hand on his waist to keep him from slipping, but instead of doing whatever it is he knows Spencer expects him to do, Derek grabs the bottle of shampoo from the shelf behind him and pops it open. Spencer blinks slowly at him as Derek pours a generous amount of shampoo on his palm and runs his fingers through Spencer's hair. His fingers tighten on Spencer's scalp and when he leans against him again to put the bottle back, it's impossible to miss the way Spencer's eyes flutter close.   
  
The tension slowly starts to ease out of Spencer's frame as Derek works his hair into a lather, his fingers massaging in slow, firm circles. His hair's starting to get longer again--long enough that Derek can twist it around his fingers, can get good and tangled in it. It's really the perfect length for Spencer, Derek reflects as he tugs on his hair a little. Spencer's head tilts back easily and Derek licks a stream of water from the long, pale expanse of his neck. Spencer shivers, the tiny vibration so minute that Derek would have missed it if they weren't pressed so tightly together.   
  
Spencer stumbles back a step--maybe trying to get space between them, maybe trying to find a wall to lean against--and ends up directly under the spray. He sputters and tries to shake the water and hair out of his face, but Derek still has a hold on him. He gently combs Spencer's hair back and repositions his head again. The suds slowly drip down Spencer's neck, crisscross over his back, and swirl down his long legs. They cling to Derek's forearms too, bright flecks of white against his dark skin, and he threads his fingers though Spencer's hair over and over until the water runs clear. Spencer's loose, pliable under his touch, and when Derek rests the pads of his thumbs behind his ears, right along the hairline, and ever so carefully presses down, an almost involuntary moan escapes from between Spencer's lips. His hands slip lower to curl around Spencer's nape, and Derek pulls him closer. He's only a breath away from kissing Spencer when there's a sudden sharp clatter of claws against the fogged glass doors, followed closely by a long, mournful howl. Spencer shakes with silent laughter and drops his forehead to Derek's shoulder, the short huffs of his breath almost cool where they dance across Derek's skin.  
  
"You've spoiled that dog rotten, you know," Spencer murmurs against his neck. Derek laughs as he untangles himself from Spencer.  
  
"Yeah. He probably just needs to go outside," Derek says as he cracks the door open and fumbles for a towel. Spencer's eyes are still dark, his cheeks still flushed, and Derek can't stop himself from curling his hand around his neck and pulling him in. He catches Spencer's mouth with his, and for an all too short moment loses himself in the hot, wet slide of it. "Finish your shower and meet me in bed," he says, winking at Spencer over his shoulder as he climbs out of the shower.  
  
Derek pats himself dry as he walks to the back door, then wraps the towel around his waist and lets Clooney out. He steps just outside the door, leaning back against the door frame, as Clooney bounces around the open yard and tries to sniff out the perfect spot. Mrs. Allen, his next door neighbor, does a double take when she notices him, and Derek lifts a hand in greeting and pretends he doesn't notice the way her eyes and mouth go almost perfectly round. After an eternity, during which Mrs. Allen waters the same plant three times and Derek starts wondering how much it would cost to put up a privacy fence, Clooney finishes up and runs past Derek back into the house.   
  
Spencer's already in bed when Derek reaches the bedroom. He has the blankets pulled up around his waist and is bent over a book with Derek's breakfast on the mattress next to him and a half-eaten piece of bacon in his hand. His hair is still damp, wet enough that every few moments tiny droplets of water drip from the tips of his curling hair to splash down on his bare shoulders and the page in front of him. Derek grins and shakes his head as he unwinds the towel from around his waist and circles around the bed to briskly rub at Spencer's hair. Spencer peeks out from under the edge of the towel and scowls at Derek, which shouldn't be endearing, but really is. Derek takes the book-- _Packing for Mars: The Curious Science of Life in the Void_ \--and drops it on the bedside table as he crawls back into bed with Spencer, careful not to knock over his--their?--breakfast.   
  
"Wasn't that supposed to be for me," Derek asks, capturing Spencer's wrist so that he can take a bite of the bacon. "It _is_ my birthday, after all."  
  
Spencer pulls out of Derek's grasp, but immediately moves so that he's tucked up against Derek's side, sliding down so that he can fit more comfortably under Derek's arm. "I was hungry and we both know you would never eat that much," Spencer points out in his 'aren't I logical?' voice.  
  
"Mmm," Derek hums noncommittally as he spears some french toast and offers it to Spencer, who shakes his head. Derek eats it instead, the rich, delicious flavors so perfect that he takes another bite before continuing. "I'd normally say that I can't argue with that, but this is amazing. You might have to fight me for your share."  
  
Spencer beams widely at him and steals another piece of bacon, and the next half hour is happily lost in feeding each other, licking sticky beads of syrup from each other's skin, and pushing Clooney off the bed every few minutes.  
  
Derek drags the last bit of french toast through the syrup that's still smeared across the bottom of the plate. He gives the dish a speculative look as he pops the bite in his mouth. It's part of a cheap, plain set that Derek picked up on sale while he was still in college. It's flimsy, disposable, temporary. The sort of dishware that only bachelors who need something to tide them over are supposed to buy. Derek picks at a crack in the plate with his fingernail, his mother's advice still echoing in his ears.   
  
Derek's always thought he'd never get married, never have anything longer than a few nights. He's far too broken for that kind of normal relationship. But now there's Spencer, who always knows when to back off and when to really push. Spencer, who has his back no matter how hard things get. Spencer, who puts up with his dog and makes him bacon and makes him _happy_. Spencer, who's just as broken as he is. And maybe between the two of them they can piece together one nearly whole person. The look on his face must be something unreadable, because Spencer's lips are pulled to the side and his head's tilted in that way it does when he's trying to figure something out. Derek smiles at him and taps the edge of the old, chipped plate.  
  
"What would you think about going out later today and getting new dishes?"

 


End file.
